


Always Seek Independent Confirmation of a Diagnosis

by WinterDusk



Series: Not What He Intended [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, The Tesseract (Marvel), Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 11:08:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24968725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterDusk/pseuds/WinterDusk
Summary: Wherein convincing everyone you’re dead is harder than it should be, and passing on messages that could save the universe is nigh on impossible.A.K.A.  Thor and Loki struggle to communicate at the best of times.  Speaking across the mortal veil is definitelynotthe best of times.
Relationships: Frigga | Freyja & Loki (Marvel), Frigga | Freyja & Thor (Marvel), Loki & Thor (Marvel)
Series: Not What He Intended [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807195
Comments: 2
Kudos: 85





	Always Seek Independent Confirmation of a Diagnosis

**Author's Note:**

> In the name of artistic licence, Coulson's healing trip to Tahiti has taken days, not weeks.
> 
> Warnings: Racism of the Aesir/Jotunn variety.

“But he's not _really_ dead, is he?”

Thor looks at the man before him, though Stark beats him to saying it: “There seems to be a lot of that going around at the moment.”

Agent Coulson merely offers them an unreadable expression. “Clearly Loki’s strike wasn’t as bad as it looked.”

Stark, face almost lost in a deep, fur-lined hood, raises one eyebrow. Thor doesn’t have to have known the man for long to read the scepticism there. “You were dead. There was a hole in your chest, cutting your heart in half. Seems pretty bad to me.”

Put like that it’s even more unbelievable that they have Fury’s agent with them now, as they’re picking their way through the open wilderness.

“What can I say?” Coulson shrugs, face strangely at peace. “Tahiti; it’s a magical place.”

“Aye.” Thor agrees darkly. For there’s certainly something of the bewitched in the mortal’s gaze. Maybe Selvig and Barton aren’t the only two that, upon the opening of more hospitable ways, he needs must drag to Asgard and thence to Eir’s halls.

“Well, it’s certainly gotta be better than here.” Stark doesn’t seem to have noticed anything out of the ordinary in Coulson’s reply. “Remind me again, Thor. Why are we trudging around in the Nordic middle-of-nowhere?”

“I need to get back to Asgard.” More to the point, he needs to get some answers. He dreamt of Loki the previous night. Not of the pale and ghostly wraith Thor’d seen the day before; but of someone bright and real and smiling. There’d been charms woven into Loki’s hair and the galaxy at his feet. Thor had been there, too, with a plaited beard and clad in a long, leather coat.

Thor can’t imagine why his slumbering mind would choose to imagine Asgard’s princes as wandering space pirates, but it beats seeing his mother, dead. For, as much as he tries to tell himself that Loki means someone, _anyone_ , else… Means Jane, who, as they’d fought upon the Bifrost, he’d threatened to brutalise; or Sif, who Loki’s known all his days; or maybe even Lorelei, with whom he’s made a great deal of trouble over the years…

But Thor can’t convince himself. There’s simply no one else whom Loki loves so much. No one else for whom he’d risk his all to speak in defence of, and be so panicked over (so _sincere_ over) as he does so.

Unless, of course, Loki’s fine and well, and having a wonderful laugh at them all.

A laugh, while plotting over the tesseract.

Thor’s hand tightens on Mjolnir.

“And being here?” Stark spreads his hands, indicating the surrounding, uninhabited nothingness, “Helps how?”

Sometimes Thor forgets how little mortals know of their history. “Once, there was a great battle in this region and-”

He thinks Stark groans. “Thor, I really don’t think now is the time for some heroic sagas and a drinking bout. In fact-”

“You misunderstand, my friend!” Jane hadn’t been overly fond of his recounting battles, either. Apparently such retellings of the doings of one’s ancestors’ doesn’t lie within Midgardian culture. Or, at least, not within her American culture; Selvig had seemed more than willing to toast to those who came before him. “It’s not the battle that must be told of, but the reason that it was _here_.” Yes, there’s the sea and the fish and the villages (now long gone), but more than that… “ _This_ is a location where realms lie close; the point at which the Frost-” _No!_ Not that name! Be more respectful. “-the Jotunn could cross over from their world and into Midgard.”

A crack in reality; giving access to Yggdrasil’s ways. A circuitous route home, if only Thor can locate it.

“Wait a minute.” Coulson says, “You’re planning on crossing into another realm?”

“Yes. Of course. I need to depart your Earth.” And for all the strain which sending Thor across the void put on his father, Thor’s not willing to ask that Odin repeat his dark magic working.

Not that world walking’s a slighter endeavour.

After the time he’s spent on Midgard, Thor’s expecting some degree of awe at such a venture. It leaves him somewhat flatfooted that, apparently, the root of the agent’s concern is, “You’re not planning on coming back with us on the bus?”

Thor’s seen buses. They’re big, by Earth transportation standards; have four wheels; and, more to the point, don’t fly. He has no idea why Coulson’s calling the plane a bus. Maybe it’s the enchantment he’s under? “No.”

“Why’s that?” Stark asks, “Did Miss Lady Agent PTSD leave the Mighty Thor creeped out?”

Thor’s fairly certain that Midgardian titles don’t stack like that, but merely adds the oddity to his evidence that, should he ever want to blend in here, he must never attempt to act like _this_ mortal. “I am not returning with you, because first I must summon the skilled guidance of others.”

For if Loki claims that he is dead, then surely it is beholden on Thor to confirm the matter?

Then he considers the others whom he wishes to collect. That, and the distance to Stark’s tower, which, for want of a better phrase, Loki is ‘haunting’. (Pretending to haunt, surely?) “However, if you are willing to wait, we will require transportation upon our return.”

“You want us to just hang around? Waiting?” Coulson looks offended, but that’s not a reason for Thor to say otherwise. Indeed, there are several good reasons to keep the agent and his plane here. Firstly, that time may alleviate whatever enchantment the agent suffers under and, out here, there are few enough others to be hurt should the mortal be forced to some malevolent action. Secondly, impolite thought Stark was in commenting upon it, the Agent May had indeed looked in need of some space and calm. And, thirdly, that considering how Coulson has acted in all things Jane-related, Thor finds himself actually remarkably willing to vex the mortal. “For how long?”

Thor shrugs. “It would be folly to assume this route, quick.”

“Oh, that doesn’t sound good. I’m not sure what we want to go waiting around all that long,” Stark says, voice falling in that perfect blur between serious and joking that Thor can never distinguish. “I mean, look at it my way. Your brother’s holding my repair schedule up; my lobby’s closed until we get this whole issue fixed.”

“Delaying your household repair’s not the worst thing Loki’s done, Mr Stark. Try to prioritise a little.” Coulson has good cause to hold a grudge against Loki, but Thor doesn’t like to see it thus plainly in evidence. So apparently he’s a fool, wanting to protect his brother, even now. “Loki’s got everyone riled up. I couldn't believe the Captain would just abandon us. Not when we need to get the tesseract back. And now you’re telling me you’re off, disappearing, too.”

Thor will not be disappearing; he will be travelling. The two are different. And as for Rogers… “The Captain wants to find his friend.” It's certainly a perspective that Thor has sympathy with. Thor might have convinced his allies to follow him here by making reference to tracking down the tesseract, but he's more interested in his brother than the bauble Loki stole.

“I’m not certain that the Capsicle chasing a dead man’s the bit that’s giving Coulson vapours.” Stark suggests cheerfully.

“Nothing’s giving me vapours. I just have other things to do.”

Don’t they all? Thor grunts, but turns his focus back to looking for this world-split through which he must venture. For surely something of such import must-

“You know, Point Break, we could come with you.”

Thor gives Stark a thoughtful once over. Remembers how prone and shaking the man had been, following his trip through that portal and into space. “I think not, my friend.”

“You sure about that? I’m always packed and ready to go.” Stark looks around the barren landscape. “Assuming, that is, that there’s anywhere to go _to_.”

And truly, Thor fears that Stark’s scepticism is warranted; that he’s brought them all along on a fool’s errand and that he must keep searching, endlessly, relentlessly, like some undead draugr as the years and centuries trickle past.

That’s when Thor sees it, trapped between cold, split rock: the slightest shimmering of rainbow, utterly overshadowed by the brilliance of his relief.

*

_I have been_ falling _for thirty minutes!_

Right now, Loki would give just about anything to be falling. For anything has to be better than running, endlessly, perpetually.

Behind him, hounds howl. He would swear that he can hear their very claws catching on the tunnel's hot and smoking surfaces.

It’s harder to keep running than it used to be.

It's not that he's tired. Breath, pulse, adrenalin: those are the tools of the living. There’s no deep and growing ache within his muscles, nor a burning in his chest, dragging at his spirits.

No; Loki’s current reality is one that should be almost unimaginable. For - pursued by mindless, rage-filled beasts intent only on shredding him limb from limb - Loki has found not fear, nor terror. Fleeing for his un-life, as his heartbeats turn into footfalls and thence into turns of the corridors... As one hall links to another and one twisting stair is followed by yet more... As time slips, meaningless, until all that stretches before him is this one action, repeated eternally...

Loki, trickster god, force for chaos, being of no fixed allegiance and ever-changing intent, is bored.

He never knew it was possible to find being imperilled so tedious!

So, when mist forms around Loki, engulfing him whole, his first emotion is less horror and more gratitude.

*

Treading the arcane paths of the world tree is not, it appears, particularly pleasant. Or fast.

_Loki_ might have liked winkling out these routes; as for himself, Thor’s impatient for the Bifrost to be functional once more.

Indeed, Thor’s only visited three realms – Midgard to Jotunheim, Jotunheim to Asgard, and then the same again in reverse – and yet it has taken him six days; multiple favours in the form of local inhabitants lending him assorted transportation modes; three skinned knees; and, in the instance of that first dreadful journey, the loss of control of his stomach.

_If it was easy, everyone would do it._ He can almost imagine what Loki would say, smirking down at him, face mocking but without that vicious hated that coloured his attack on Midgard.

At least the final leg of their return journey will be conducted in relative ease. Coulson has not, it appears, waited for Thor’s return. But he did leave the Lady May and their plane behind.

The Lady May is far from pleased at her assignment; Thor’s spent enough time with Sif to read strong disapproval from a face that’s aiming for stoic. But she says nothing of the inconvenience, and so Thor thanks her whole-heartedly, and likewise says nothing of her grudgingly offered help.

Besides, she’s eyeing the trio behind Thor with growing speculation; it appears that introductions are in order.

If the introductions are terse, the flight is worse. The Lady May (Agent May? He needs to contact Jane for advice on the correct local form of address. Or, forget the advice, he needs to contact Jane.) is in her control room, preoccupied with flying the plane, but that just leaves Thor alone with his three guests and the evaluating looks they trade. That the story of his brother’s invasion still seems to be playing on the news channel in the background – maybe having gathered yet _more_ traction in the days Thor’s been gone – just adds to the tension.

It’s a relief when the Lady May sets them down in an area directly outside Stark’s tower, even if, to judge from the ruckus directed at them, this is not the correct place for her to land.

Coulson is waiting for them, Stark and the Lady Pepper besides him. Thor supposes that, even without his direction to do so, the Lady May must have contacted her liege. Well, that’s hardly unexpected.

It’s somewhat more unexpected that she disembarks the craft with them; mortals don’t favour disruptions to their traffic flow and so Thor had expected her to depart immediately. But she’s more familiar with the realm and doubtless knows best.

The plane rocks, slightly, as they step off; designed for mortal masses, rather than otherwise.

Stark makes a little finger wave, but he’s looking over the top of his sunglasses, and the expression he’s wearing is…

“Stark, Lady Pepper, Agent Coulson, please allow me to present you to my mother, Queen Frigga of Asgard and Vanaheim, Allmother to the Nine Realms.” His mother nods absently, but dark shadows lie under her eyes.

With merely the briefest attempt at courtesy, she walks past the mortals, ascending the steps to the tower’s sealed-off lobby entrance. Reaching the top, she stops, fingers outstretched to brush against the flimsy red and yellow tape there.

“Here?” Her voice is tired; more worn than even upon receiving Heimdall’s report that Loki yet lived and had been seen upon Midgard. “You say my son is here?”

“Maybe, mother. That is what I hope you can learn.” And then, remembering himself, he nods to his guest, standing at his shield arm, “Both of you, that is.”

“And you would be?” Coulson sounds calm, but he’s clearly not happy at having to put his back to an Asgardian Queen. Thor suspects that it’s less a manners issue, and more for fear of threats. Say what one will of the mortal; he has a keen assessment of danger.

Thor gestures to his left, “This is Skald Farbauti, of Jotunheim.” She’s taller than Thor, though not by much, making her exceptionally short for a Jotunn. And, by the standards of Midgard, she’s possibly not adequately attired, wearing as she does a leather kilt, a belt hung with objects presumably relevant to her craft, a large number of silver and diamond chains in various configurations, and not much else. “She is a skilled witch, who may be able to assist my mother in her studies.” ‘Assist’ is not the right word; not if half of what Thor has learned of Jotunn magics is true; but his mother is a queen and Farbauti is not.

Besides, he is left with no time for further elaboration as he has to deal with the snort of indignation coming from his right. Two days! This has been going on for _two days_ , and still she cannot be civil to their honoured guest! “And this is the Lady Lorelei. _Please_ be reminded of your manners, my lady.”

Lorelei rolls her eyes, “We don’t need some monster hedgewitch.”

What they _don’t_ need is further inter-realm friction, but Lorelei’s never shown concern for that before. In truth, Thor wouldn’t have brought her save that- “You’re not working with the Queen,” he tells her, hoping that, now he has her on Midgard, she’s unlikely to be so vexed at him as to _refuse_ to help just because he’s misled her.

In similar circumstances, Loki _would_ refuse. Or, at least, become quite difficult. And it shouldn’t be possible that this thought sends something sharp and cutting through Thor’s heart. For surely a sibling’s preference for grudges shouldn’t be remembered fondly?

Grudges or not, thankfully Loki has always been clear as to where his various compatriots’ skills lie and made no bones in telling them of that. Thus it is that when Lorelei turns her expression into mocking scorn and says, “I did think you ignorant to ask me help you in this matter. What do you _truly_ want?” he can remain sanguine. For life and death and world barriers aren’t why he’s brought her along.

No. Lorelei’s workings are known to all for addressing her own furtherment; won through the warping and beguiling of other peoples’ affections. “You’re here for Agent Coulson, Lady. I believe him bewitched.”

For while it is true that Coulson’s wronged Jane, no one deserves to be trapped in their own mind.

“What are you-” “ _Dude_ , what?” “Are you _crazy_?” “-ordered by Fury himself and-” The ensuing uproar is much hotter than that which followed Thor’s request of King Helblindi, to borrow a skald.

It’s also much shorter. While Thor had expected the main resistance to a sorceress poking at Coulson to arise from the Lady May, instead she is his surprise ally. “Tahiti, Phil.”

And Coulson’s face… relaxes. “It’s a magical place.”

He blinks; disquiet chasing that calm away.

It seems almost unnecessary to say, “As you can see, my lady, I believe that he is labouring under a disruption to his mind’s function. You are well versed in such manipulative magics; please enlighten us.”

“How interesting.” Lorelei stalks slowly towards the agent, expression almost as enchanted as Coulson’s had been. “Oh, Thor, I do believe you’re getting to understand me better.”

Hopefully that’s a good thing. “Mother, Skald Farbauti, shall we head within?”

*

The mist is strange. Forget eldritch, it’s utterly _unknown_ to him. And yet, for all that, there’s something familiar to its taste.

Bracingly chill after the fires he’s been skirting, it’s tempting to just linger a while. Yet within that cool refreshment Loki seems to hear something of a call or summons. Someone or something, it would appear, would have contact with him.

As the most likely person to seek Loki out is the Queen of Hel – his sister and also a woman that he’s (indirectly!) been responsible for having set on fire by leaving her to their enemy – following such a summons hardly seem wise.

_Disobeying_ the summons, however, is likely to leave him just where he started. Which is to say, with hounds and smoke and cycling through utter repetitive monotony.

It’s an easy decision to make, though a harder one to act on.

Following that call, the mist draws thicker. Starts to cling to him more like sea spray and thence dense waters. It’s that density that gives him pause; for maybe it’s not his sister who’s calling him, but rather his brother. For density – realness – is a feature of the living not the dead.

He’d not expected Thor to resort to necromancy this quickly, though he can’t claim to be disappointed to evade both hounds _and_ Hela.

Fully committed now, Loki drives himself further into this strange spell. Where before he had imagined the barrier to the living as like running uphill to a cliff-face, now it’s like submerging himself in an ocean. He must put his head down, under that water, and swim with all his might into the depths; kicking out until his fingers reach the sandy bottom and scrabble there for purchase. And, all the while, his lungs and his buoyancy strive to drive him back to the surface and the realm of the dead.

He almost gives up, for surely nothing could be worth this effort. Save that, when he strikes out again, he can see through that sandy bottom and he’s no longer swimming at all.

*

There’s a token resistance at leaving Coulson and Lorelei together, but the Lady May offers to remain by their side and, ill-versed though Lorelei may be in the arts of the battlefield, she’s surely observant enough to mark the other woman out as a warrior of excellence; a force not to be lightly trifled with.

Stark leads them inside, where the lobby is… surprisingly normal if somewhat damaged. Nothing looks to have changed. His mother steps away from their group to make a slow circuit of the place, glowing Seidr pooling in her hands, her focus apparently sufficient to leave her unheeding of her curious audience. Farbauti waits by Thor’s side, endlessly patient, and watches, letting the Allmother go first.

His mother’s steps falter at the stairwell. One hand reaches out, her fingers brushing the shattered stonework there, and, for a moment, Thor can remember only the violence with which the Hulk can act; recalls the shattered floor of Stark’s chambers and his brother’s shaken smirk.

Thor’s actually expecting their mother to comment on the destruction, but all she says is, “And Loki’s not been seen since that first reappearance?”

Thor looks to Stark for confirmation.

“No.” Stark sounds almost as tired as the evening of the invasion. Any hint of that curious excitement he’d greeted them with is gone; vanished in that instant he realised he’d been confronted with a grieving parent.

“I understand. That’s…” For the first time, Thor thinks his mother overwhelmed and longs to take her in his embrace; to offer what comfort he can. But he daren’t step closer and risk interfering with whatever workings she’s engaged in. Thor’s hands twitch with frustration, until he becomes aware that the skald is looking, carefully from the corner of her eyes, at him. He stills, hoping that he hasn’t frightened her; that Farbauti doesn’t mistake his action for some precursor to violence.

His mother’s words recapture his attention. “There is a great deal of power and fallout drifting about. With time I could separate these strands, but…” She shakes her head, eyes not meeting Thor’s. “Necromancy and wraith-summoning aren’t really to my skillset, Thor.”

“I am aware.” The dead are the dead and deserve their rest; it’s against Asgardian and Vanir custom alike to interfere with them. Thor cannot stop his gaze from sliding to Helblindi’s skald.

“I’ve got security footage, if that would help?” Stark offers. He’s already pulling out his communications device. Thor’s not certain how Stark thinks that seeing her youngest so… strange… can help. “’Security footage’ is a type of audio-visual record that we make here on Earth to-”

“Go to your living child, Allmother.” Farbauti steps forward, firmly pressing down on Stark’s arm as she passes until he lowers his device. “Let one who is at a less emotional vantage, look this over.”

Thor’s not certain that he likes the way Farbauti distinguishes him from his brother by making reference to his continued life. For surely Loki’s only playing with them? Or maybe has made some grievous miscalculation and is trapped, in need of help? (Though Loki’s not the type to mistake being living for being dead.)

Unlike his mother, Farbauti doesn’t pace the lobby. Rather, she steps into the middle of the space, unties a rattle and a carved bone from her belt, and starts to dance. Thor’s aware that Stark’s eyebrows are climbing towards his hairline, but is more interested in taking his mother’s hand and pulling her into a one-armed hug than in telling Stark to mind his manners.

The chains rattle as Farbauti moves. Her feet slap on the floor and, for all that just moments earlier the space had been pleasantly warm, ice sprinkles and sprays about. It’s possible that there’s a rhythm in her actions, but Thor’s never found the measure of it; not in her greeting rituals, nor in her story telling, nor now in her Seidr-weaving.

He wishes Loki had had a chance to visit Jotunheim _before_ all of the unpleasantness.

By which, of course, Thor must acknowledge he means that war _he_ damn near started.

“I’ve never seen a Jotunn skald work before,” his mother murmurs, startling Thor into looking at her. But her face is fixed in Loki’s look of abstract fascination, so he doesn’t bother her with questions.

Besides him, Thor hears Stark draw in breath, doubtless about to ask _something_ beyond Thor’s ability to address, but then everything changes. Stark’s question turns into a choked gasp.

The whole room has become instantly shot-through with ice.

But it’s like no ice that Thor has ever seen before. Rather it is thin as sheet silk and formed into patterns, partial sculptures, and runes he cannot read. Light scatters, split to rainbow, throughout the lobby.

“I see.” Farbauti says and, pointing right to the location from which Loki vanished a little over a week ago, says, “That was where it happened.”

“Yeees,” Stark agrees, looking remarkably unimpressed despite such a vivid rendering of occult working. “And we already know that was where Loki took the tesseract, from the security footage.”

Loki would take someone’s head of for that tone. Lorelei would steal their heart and use that to bleed them dry. Thor’s mother would – and indeed _is_ – give such disrespect a disapproving frown.

Farbauti is skald to a Jotunn court. Helblindi’s and, if Thor understands correctly, Laufey’s before that. It’s not a place that puts much emphasis on respect other than for force. She merely inclines her head in agreement with Stark’s assessment, before calmly correcting him, “This is where the glaciers of fate divided.” She closes her eyes for a second, apparently thinking. “I believe that you’d call it a multiverse split.”

“Wait? _What?_ ”

Farbauti smiles, but does not say ‘Didn’t your security footage show you that?’ instead choosing the much more diplomatic, “You can see here,” one fingertip brushes a delicate circular swirl that, against all Thor’s expectations, does not immediately shatter into a million pieces, “that Prince Loki has departed this realm.”

“For where? And when?”

“Those are the wrong questions.” His mother’s leaving Thor’s arms, stepping carefully in amongst Farbauti’s work as though comprehending something therein beyond the ken of mere warriors. “The better question is ‘who’s this?’”

Her fingers nearly brush the cheek of one of the ice sculptures. _It’s Loki,_ Thor wants to say. _That’s where he appeared, shrouded in haze._

“You already knew your son had gone, Allmother.” Farbauti doesn’t make it a question.

And their mother smiles, eyes sad, “He is my child. I looked for him, found him, tracked him. And then he vanished. I had hoped that such an absence was as it was in the year since his fall and yet…”

“You suspected differently.” Farbauti nods as though such an intuitive leap makes perfect sense.

“I cannot see how he could have crossed between strands of reality; between glacial fates, that is, to use your terminology.”

Farbauti seems unconcerned by the terms her Allmother chooses. “An Asgardian-taught Seidr-man holding a universal fragment? It would have been taxing, but not impossible.”

“I’m still hung up on this multiverse bit.” Stark cuts in. “What about you, Thor? Is this making any sense to you? Because it sounds to me like everyone’s talking a lot of crazy here and-”

“Not crazy,” Farbauti says. “Just rare. Prince Loki left and opened up a crevasse in the metaphorical flow of ice and…” her gesture, chains ringing, sweeps to encompass the ice ‘Loki’ besides Thor’s mother, “…someone fell in.”

_Someone?_

Not Loki?

Thor thinks he might be sick. “If not my brother, then who?”

“Thor,” his mother’s tone is telling him to be calm.

But Farbauti just tilts her head, thoughtful. “You misunderstand, Prince Thor. This is _a_ brother to _a_ Thor, come from a different corner of reality to… Your people’s metaphors for fate are all in thread and weaving and cloth, are they not? You could view your brother as one of many warp threads running through a tapestry of fate. Yet he is now gone. Rather than cut short his thread and damage the cloth, instead Existence has brought through another piece to tie on and… continue with. Or however you describe picking up a discontinued weaving.”

And then she says the _really_ unbelievable bit. “I can summon this version of him, if you’d like.”

*

When the water-and-sand sensation clears, or at least fades into the ‘normal’ shimmering fog of the mortal veil, Loki’s back in Stark’s tower. Which, with its associated connotations, is not exactly the place he’d _choose_ to be, if his only other option wasn’t so very much worse.

It’s very hard to make much of anyone out, apart from Stark and his rotting chest gizmo, but Loki thinks that he recognises the red blur of Thor’s cloak, so he turns in that direction.

“Why is hel burning?” Okay, perhaps there should be bigger problems to tackle, but if he’s going to exist around here for long enough to help past-Thor out, then it would be nice not to get incinerated at the same time.

It’s Stark who replies, voice nonchalant almost to the point of coma. “Doesn’t it always?”

Always? Why would hel burn?

It should be a point of mild academic interest. Instead Loki finds it rather… petty and infuriating of Stark to address him so.

Thankfully Thor answers before Loki has to, giving him a moment to gather is thoughts. It’s surprisingly hard to do when drawing deep, even breaths isn’t an option.

“Of course not.” Thor sounds confused. Well, that’s never been very difficult to achieve. It’s just ironic that, in this particular instance, Loki in perfect agreement with his brother’s bafflement. “It should be cold and misty. Maybe with ice. Loki, about Malekith-”

Ah, yes. Malekith and mother. Loki opens his mouth to reply-

“Looks misty to me.”

“That’s _smoke_ , not mist, you blind imbecile.” Loki doesn’t mean to snap. Can’t understand why this point is apparently vexing him so. But before he can dwell up on it, his attention is snared by two ghostly figures behind Thor. They’re drawing nearer, and the flavour of one spirit tastes like…

Something howls.

Just like that, Loki’s back in the corridor. Running.

He _doesn’t want_ to be running. He wants to be in that blasted nightmare of a chamber, talking to his brother, hopefully far away from these damn hounds and-

He _still_ hasn’t told Thor that it’s _mother_ whom he needs to protect. What if she dies again and-

The mist doesn’t rise to engulf him this time. Rather it’s fainter and far more insidious, like a scent on the breeze rather than a thickening of the air.

He could ignore its call. He doesn’t.

Turning towards the beckoning power is like swimming. More than that, it’s like diving. He’s back at the veil to the living and he can see-

Of course, the magic had felt familiar! “Mother.”

“My Loki.” Even formed more of suggestion and memory, her living smile is a wondrous thing, for she smiles at him like everything is forgiven. Guilt threatens to swallow Loki whole. Her love exists only because he has yet to complete the truly unforgivable events of his past. “I’ve been searching for you.”

“How are you managing this?” It’s a wonderful bit of good news in his recent sea of troubles. For if his mother is able to summon him like this, then there should be no shortage to the things he can tell her. Malekith; Thanos; Hela: they can finally make a _plan_ and- Yet, it feels like he’s missing something.

“This is no working of mine, my son.” And she gestures to the creature besides her. The being’s distorted by the veil, hazy and washed of colour, and yet even so… “This is-”

_A monster_. Somehow Loki manages not to complete that sentence for her, for doubtless this creature is needed, however it is that his mother tricked it in to doing her bidding. But if it were not utterly nessesary then Loki would send it back to the icy wastes from which it came and-

And _no wonder_ the Seidr felt familiar. It was not his mother’s warmth that had called to him, but rather something that resonated with that monstrous echo deep within himself.

If Loki could, he’d be sick.

He’s too dead to be sick, but he can stagger back. Can find himself on those long, empty corridors once more. Has to fight back to the realm of the living again, though currents and turbulence which seems to whisper and tear at him and-

“Loki!” Loki might not be able to see Thor’s face well enough to read it, but he can recognise that frustrated tone of voice well enough. “If you’re serious about this whole knowledgeable dead spirit tale, then before you vanish again, just tell me: who dies?”

Loki opens his mouth to oblige Thor, but finds himself cut off. For, muffled though the sound is, someone has started to scream.

Dimly, Loki’s aware of a voice he knows well saying, “That’s not me. _I_ didn’t make him do that.”

*

It should not be possible to upstage a semi-transparent tesseract thief, especially not one about to definitively reveal the name of a murder victim. (Please don’t let it be mother!) But if anyone could manage it, Thor’s not surprised to find Lorelei involved.

Thor doesn’t want to leave alternative-Loki, but one look through the glass windows to where the Lady May’s aiming what looks like _Coulson’s_ gun at Lorelei, reorders the urgency of local events. He sprints for the trio, hoping to stop things from getting _worse_. “What happened here?”

It’s May who answers. “She’s mind-control torturing him!”

“I’m _not_!”

As much as Thor hates to defend the sorceress, doesn’t sound like her style. “Lorelei?”

“You _wanted_ me to play with the consciousness of another!” In that moment, angry and vengeful, she reminds Thor far too much of her older sister.

“Not play.” He clarifies hastily and possibly too late. “Just examine. And thence, if bespelled, to free him.”

Coulson, curled up on the stairs, head in his hands as he sobs, does not look freed.

“Don’t go blaming me just because it turns out that there’s nasty stuff hidden in there.”

“Nasty?” May asks.

“Needles and-” Lorelei gestures to her head “-stuff. I really think you should probably stop talking to me and sedate him.”

Warily May looks from Thor to Lorelei and back. Thor’s not certain what she’s looking for – he’s no healer, and she’s clearly already suspicious of Lorelei’s actions – but after a tense moment the gun is lowered. “I’ll get the first aid kit.” She turns to the plane.

And Thor should stay with Coulson; it’s fairly clear that’s what the Lady May expects. But he’s left Loki and Stark and mother and Farbauti and… He needs answers.

“I’ll be back later.” He tells Lorelei. “Don’t make this worse.”

He returns in time to hear Loki saying, “Everyone, Stark. Everyone’s going to die. Well, half of everyone, though that’s still rather a lot. It’s kind of a big deal actually.”

Thor misses a bit then, because his mother leans into ask, “What was that about? Is everything okay?” Thus Thor has to explain about Coulson, which is hard, when he doesn’t understand all of the details.

“He was dead, you say?” Farbauti seems much more relaxed about this than Thor’s happy with. “Yet now he lives?”

“Well, I, for one, am happy with that development,” Stark cuts in. “Go, Phil, and all that. Even if it is a bit creepy.” He looks back at Loki. “He’s not a big fan of you though. You’re just going to have to give him that one.”

Their mother gives Thor an enquiring look, inviting him to clarify the root of contention between Coulson and Loki. Thor wonders how best to explain that Loki sort-of-but-clearly-not killed the man. “It was an honourable fight,” he tells her instead. If anything, Coulson should hold a grudge against whoever kept him from Valhalla. “And his good regard is no loss, mother. Coulson is thief. He took Jane’s research and tried to destroy her scholarship.”

“Ah.” Frigga’s face tightens. “ _That_ type of man.”

Thor nods. “Quite.”

“Are you two _quite_ done?” Apparently they’ve succeeded in proving that the dead can, indeed, be angered. “Or would you like to hear how mother dies, so that you can stop it?”

Thor thinks that his heart briefly stops beating. He reaches out to take their mother’s hand, and it feels fragile in his own, for all that it’s well-calloused from fencing. “How?”

“Is this part of your ‘everyone dies’ story?” Stark asks.

“It’s not a story.” Loki’s sounding more waspish by the second. “And, no, it’s not. She dies first. Malekith creates some sort of Kursed solider-”

“Malekith’s _dead_.” Although coming back from the place of no return appears to be something of a theme of late.

Loki’s gaze, flickering and lost in smoke as it may be, can definitely qualify as a reproving. “I’d think you’d want to trust your beloved brother, freshly returned from the clutches of hel, to advise you. You know, I thought you said that you grieved for me. But it sure as Bor drinks doesn’t seem like it from here!”

“It’s hard to grieve someone, brother, when they’ve behaved quite so reprehensibly!”

“Reprehensibly?” Loki has the audacity to look offended. One flickering hand raising to his sternum as though clutching at a pendant.

“And how else would you describe your actions to me? You threatened Jane. Sent the Destroyer after me. Even father! You lied and told me he was _dead_!”

Loki smiles; a sudden flash of bright teeth in a face clearer than ever since these strange and frosted images began. “I forgot how you like to hold a good grudge.” Like _Loki’s_ one to speak on that! “Still, _brother_ , I thought you held to the pretty view of speaking no ill of the dead.”

“Then there’d be little, indeed, to speak of you.” But even as the words pass his lips, Thor can feel his shoulders slump. For Loki’s not wrong. Thor has spoken no ill of him – not until Heimdall had come bearing news of an attack on Midgard.

Yet worse than grieving for someone who grew so twisted by bitterness that he’d barely been recognisable as Thor’s brother, apparently is grieving for someone Thor’s still not convinced is dead. “Are you really gone?”

“You’re _still_ not certain?” Loki’s face is incredulous. “You’ve had the dancing runt over there-” he makes a vicious gesture towards the skald, “-verify my demise, yet you won’t trust even your own soothsayer?”

“You make it very hard to trust anything about you, brother.”

Loki vanishes.

*

Gritting teeth that _feel_ real, even if he isn’t, Loki forces himself to put aside his distaste. To reach for the scent of that magic (and it even _smells_ of ice and chill; how had he not noticed earlier?) and swim down until he’s standing with his mother and that monster.

“Stop doing that!” Thor: who else?

“I’m not doing it on purpose!” Not exactly. “So you need to calm down!”

“Maybe I'd be calmer if you'd stop running away!”

_Stop running?_ Oh, Loki would just _love_ to! “Unfortunately for me, our bloody sister's making that a mite difficult right now.”

And Loki doesn't need to _see_ Thor's face to hear his confusion, nor the suspicion underlying it: “Sister?”

Oh, Norns! It's going to take a more trustworthy source than Loki to sell this truth to his brother.

To be fair, he should probably have considered this before, rather than running about and being bored. And while it hadn’t seemed altogether likely he’d see his brother again, it’s not like him to fail to plan for every eventuality. Just what _had_ he been planning on saying to Thor on the off chance that they met once more? ‘Mother's in danger, father's on his last legs, and by the way we have this sister…’?

So there’s that, and, now that he’s thinking clearly, Loki needs to get Thor a bit more… ready… for what’s coming. Seeing as Loki’s damn well going to try to ensure that what’s coming doesn’t involve a dead mother, a missing eye, or a destroyed realm.

The answer to all his problems is obvious when he looks for it.

*

Maybe Thor shouldn’t have snapped. For Loki sighs, apparently finally beyond any pretence at patience. “I’ll have to send you somewhere whence you’ll know the truth.” Can any such place exist? It all seems a little too neat.

Then Loki adds, “Have Heimdall send you to a little junk heap called Sakaar where-”

“The Bifrost remains shattered,” their mother says.

“Well, someone on Earth must make spacecraft,” Loki suggests, as though this were perfectly reasonable.

Thor’s patience, frayed by fear and uncertainty, snaps.

“Stop wasting time, Loki! You said _moth-_ ” But his voice is not up to that task, for it breaks rather than speak such evil. “You _said_ Malekith comes.”

Malekith, who is evil incarnate and should have been dust many millennia prior.

News delivered by Loki, who should be happy, living, not here and apparently dead. “You seemed to see it as rather _urgent_ , brother. Yet now you would have me wander the stars!”

And how is Thor even to do that? Asgard has never needed ships to cut across the void. And Midgard, Thor’s first place to turn to, lack any such transportation device.

“You have time.” Their conversation’s driving Loki from waspish to worse. “Besides, your only other option is to talk to a crazy Midgardian wizard, and trust me when I say that I do _not_ recommend going to see him.”

“We have time?” That’s good. That’s something. “How long?”

Loki starts to speak. Pauses. Frowns. “I can't remember.”

“Enough games! How long?”

“I… I can’t…” And, clear as glass across this doppelganger's face, a fastly rising unease. Thor almost believes it. Then it’s gone with a flickering change of humour, “The convergence. _That’s_ when it happens. Of course. When else could it be?”

“The convergence?” Vaguely Thor remembers that others, scholars and the like, have spoken of this. But, for himself, he’s expected little impact from it and so has done nothing save ordering the realm’s Einherjar to step up their training. Just in case. “That’s in…?” He looks at Loki expectantly.

“It’s when it is, that’s when!” Loki’s snaps, and there’s something off in such defensiveness when normally Thor’s brother would showcase his learning. “How about you _think_ for a moment and figure out something yourself for once?” Then he seems to freeze; flicker.

Thor thinks he hears, more distant even than the roar of the departing SHIELD plane, the howl of hounds.

“I do not have time for this, Thor.” Loki snaps. “Go to Sakaar. Retrieve the artefact, Scrapper 142.” Thor can’t imagine why he’d need to claim a scrap-sorting machine. “If you speak to it the correct words, then you will get all the answers you seek, and from a much more _trustworthy_ source than me.”

Ah. A quest? “What are these words, brother?” For much as Thor wishes he could claim to trust Loki, he fears it would be a lie.

“As Odin’s firstborn, I demand that you reveal to me my birthright.”

Thor blinks. “That seems rather rude.” It’s also a lot more specific to him than he’d expected. Why would a scrap machine on a distant planet have been used to hide secrets relating to Odin’s kin?

“Thor. Just bloody well go and get help!” And Loki’s gone. This time he doesn’t come back.

**Author's Note:**

> No archive tag on for ‘Major Character Death’ because Loki’s already dead in MCU. Please let me know if you think this needs changing.


End file.
